Soft Wounds and Silent Mornings

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A tapestry of touch, a whispered plea,
Where love’s soft wounds bloom, wild and free.
Kisses fall like morning dew—
Then fade to embers, bittersweet, and new.

Whispers drift like summer's breeze,
Carrying secrets through rustling trees.
Tickles trace a playful art,
Laughter echoing deep in the heart.

Small pains rise like tiny thorns,
Piercing flesh where passion forms.
Broken hooks of fleeting grace
Leave hollow marks in this tender place.

The sound of breath, a rhythmic beat,
Brushes close—a whispered sweet.
Beads of sweat on skin so fair
Gleam with a fire beyond compare.

Nerves hum soft in silent tune,
As bodies move beneath the moon.
Waists swaying in a sacred rite,
A dance of love through pulsing night.

Fatigue arrives, a breath, a sigh,
Still glowing under the starry sky.
Then hush—the silence, warm and deep,
A vow unspoken, meant to keep.

But shame returns, a fleeting spark,
A blush that flickers in the dark.
Regret takes root like midnight flowers,
Opening slow through aching hours.

Tears arrive like breaking glass,
Moments shattering as they pass.
Faces withered by morning’s hue
Still hold the ghosts of me and you.

I come again, the ritual same—
Bathed and bare, I speak your name.
Steam around me, soft and white,
As if your arms could reignite.

I pour the coffee, thick and slow,
In silence only I now know.
Your chair is empty, yet I see
The way you used to look at me.

Scratches bloom like crimson art,
Faint constellations on my heart.
Little love marks, tender, true—
The last small proof I belonged to you.

So tell me now, beneath the hush,
You who held me in every touch—
Who kissed and carved me with such grace—
How could you leave and not leave a trace?

How could you go,
you who loved me so much?



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